Becoming Sherlock
by patemalah21
Summary: A series of 221b one shots exploring the influences and people who help make Sherlock the person he is. Stories are not necessarily in chronological order.
1. Chapter 1

**Becoming Sherlock**

_A/N- This is the first in a series of 221b one shots depicting stories of how the man became the Brilliant Consulting Detective. Each story stands alone and is not necessarily in chronological order._

Chapter One – Clothes Make the Man

Sherlock hurried down the side street in Whitechapel. Surrounding him were shops displaying used merchandize and items of questionable origin. It was a cold day and he shivered in his lightweight jacket. He was about to enter a pawn shop when something in the shop opposite caught his eye.

In the window was a coat. It was wool, had sleek lines, and though obviously not new, was in excellent repair. Sherlock pushed the door to the shop open.

"May I help you?" The shop attendant politely asked.

"I would like to try on that coat. Please." Sherlock said.

"Oh, isn't it lovely? We just got it in this morning. The man said he was moving to Florida and wouldn't need it. It's a vintage classic."

Sherlock slipped into the coat. It fit like a glove. He pursed his lips and turned about gazing at his reflection. His hands dipped into the pockets checking the condition of the inner lining and felt a small rectangle. He pulled it out and revealed a small business card.

Bertram Hudson Investments

Marylebone

242 Edgware Road

London W2 1DS

He dropped the card back into the pocket and his hands automatically rose to the collar and flipped it up. He opened the coat and looked at the label neatly stitched inside the front and smiled, Belstaff.


	2. Mental Olympics

**Mental Olympics**

Sherlock scanned the crime scene, his eyes darting to and fro; observing, sending signals to his retinas which sent the information deeper in the brain in order to form images. Neurons, each connecting with other neurons, instantaneously formed networks between the cells. Networked cells, combined together to create a neural forest. Cells began communicating with each other by sending electrical pulses and chemical signals to bridge the space in the synapses to jump and connect to other neurons. A hundred thousand nerve cells fired pulses, made intricate connections, and allowed Sherlock to accurately observe the data.

"_The victim is left handed, and indicated by the calluses on the thumb and index finger, a surgeon." _

Each neuron connected with as many as fifty thousand other neurons to share information which permitted the detective to rapidly and efficiently observe, analyze, and interpret the information effortlessly. The trillions of neural networks interacting together like an improvisational symphony orchestra creating a new inspired work.

"_The disfigurement of the face indicates rage from the killer."_

This ability to think new thoughts was essential to his work. It's what made what he did a step up from ordinary.

"_The killer was a victim of a botched cosmetic procedure"._

The complexity of the process was enormous. 100 billion neurons times 50 thousand connections was good news for brainwork.


	3. Chapter 3 - Definitions

**Chapter Three - Definitions**

_A/N This chapter is dedicated to Starrysummernights. Happy Birthday!_

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"_A man is the sum of his actions, of what he has done, of what he can do, nothing else." _

_- Gandhi, Mahatma_

"_Do the best you can in every task, no matter how unimportant it may seem at the time. No one learns more about a problem than the person at the bottom."_

― _Sandra Day O'Connor_

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By age twenty-five, Sherlock Holmes had screwed up his life spectacularly. He had managed to accrue an early education file over an inch thick, been expelled from a prestigious prep school, and kicked out of no less than three universities. The problem wasn't academic, he had top marks. His problem was boredom and lack of acceptable social behavior. He saw little need for manners or cooperation. In short, he wasn't a team player.

There were thick medical files filled with neurological exams, psycho-analysis, and practically every test known for identifying mental problems following him about. The results were always inconclusive; suggesting everything from Asperger's Syndrome to varying degrees of psychopathy. There was never a concrete label identifying his problem, but everyone consulted agreed there was definitely a problem.

He started using drugs. Cocaine helped him focus. It allowed him to think without distraction. But soon addiction became a spiral of downward destruction. Repeated rehab programs failed. It seemed hopeless.

His salvation was crime. Not committing it, but rather crime detection. He began following the police reports, showing up at crime scenes. Most police officers were wary; several attempted to pin the crimes on him. One officer was different. Inspector Greg Lestrade noticed something beyond the obvious needle scars, general neglect and rude behavior. He looked at Sherlock Holmes and saw brilliance.


	4. Mycroft

**Mycroft**

In childhood, he was adored. Everything Mykie did was perfect. Sherlock wanted to be just like him. He followed him about, imitating his walk and his speech patterns. He even ordered the same food in restaurants, though he hated salmon. Everyone said that Sherlock was a miniature Mycroft.

Sometime during Mycroft's teen years, everything changed. Struggling to form his own identity, Mykie was no longer amused with his shadow. Thus began the time of rejection, cruel words and endless ridicule. Sherlock, emotions never being his area of expertise, withdrew confused and humiliated. Anger replaced adoration.

Now he thinks about his sibling as little as possible. If asked to describe him, phrases like "arch enemy" and "the world's most dangerous man" come immediately to mind. These are silly descriptors, most applicable used describing cartoon characters and superhero villains. Other words, less flamboyant and more accurate, would be: irritating, controlling, interfering, and dominating. Mycroft Holmes is an influence Sherlock would most decidedly rather do without.

It has become a game they play, attack and counterattack. There are rules to be observed, procedures to follow, insuring all is played out as carefully as the most delicate international incident. Words are weapons, honed over the intervening years to rapier sharpness. Stoic observations are met with flamboyant rebellion. It's not sentiment; it's a thing between brothers.


	5. Muse

**Muse**

He was a quiet man, with a quiet life not given to theatrics or emotion. He was content tending his shop. His small business often drew the type of customers who lingered and liked to chat. He didn't mind, he enjoyed hearing others natter about their lives, though he rarely said much in return. People always said he was a good listener.

Evenings were spent in his comfortable chair, reading voraciously. He had a secret penchant for whodunits and murder mysteries.

He decided to donate his body to science when he died. It seemed the right thing to do as there was no one to mourn his passing. In due time, his skeleton found it's way into a teaching hospital.

Eventually, the skeleton was damaged in a senseless prank. What remained was retired to a box on a shelf and forgotten. Years passed. The storage area was cleaned and the box of old bones was gathered with other items to be incinerated.

"Hello!" A deep voice said in way of introduction as strong fingers plucked the skull from the pile of rubbish.

Piercing bluish-green eyes stared intently into vacant eye sockets. An odd connection was forged, like a meeting of kindred spirits, or a fulfillment of destiny.

"Yes, you will do nicely." Sherlock said with satisfaction. "I shall call you Billy."


	6. Chapter 6 Method of Loci

_**A/N – I know! Two chapter updates in one day? As Sherlock would say: "I'm on fire!"**_

**Method of Loci**

"What's Freak doing?" Donovan demanded as Sherlock stood staring vacantly with his fingers steepled beneath his nose.

"He's gone into his mind Palace." Lestrade whispered.

"You're kidding."

"It's an ancient Greek memory technique. Information is stored in visually familiar places, such as the rooms of your house. Then you can retrieve that information anytime by revisiting those places."

"Say you have some favorite recipes." Lestrade clarified. "Using the image of your bedroom, you could place all the versions of omelets and soufflés on the bed. Then you just walk through the room any time you need the information. The more graphic the memory, the easier it is to remember, so instead of plain recipe cards, you might have a trap door open out of the bed and Julia Child pop up holding the recipies."

The thought of the famous chef in Sherlock's bed was hilarious. Donavan grinned. "So, the French Chef is in his bed, and oh let's say the Queen is sitting in the chair in the corner, sipping tea while holding all the secrets to the making of a good cuppa?"

"More likely, she's holding the kinds of poisons that can be dissolved in liquids." Lestrade said dryly.

"And he calls it his Mind Palace?"

"As long as it works." Lestrade said firmly, "he is welcome to call it Balmoral."


	7. Chapter 7 The Violin

_**The Violin**_

On the surface, there was nothing special about that particular violin. Manufactured in Germany in 1880, there were probably hundreds of others just like it lying about in dusty attics, scraped on by beginning virtuosos or occasionally but more rarely, cherished by seasoned veterans of music. Its appearance was pleasing, but its history unimpressive.

Peering through the f stops did not reveal a label identifying it as the craftsmanship of a famous master Luthier, so it was overlooked, underappreciated and categorized as a mediocre instrument. It took the discriminating gaze of Sherlock Holmes to notice the smooth flamed maple body and a fine belly grain that was deep orangey brown. His fingers carefully caressed the rich patina that came only from years of use. Someone had loved this instrument very much.

He carefully took it down from its rack and adjusted the keys slightly while tuning it softly. The clerk tried to interest him in other more prestigious violins, but he shook his head and placed the old violin under his chin. He raised his bow and began to draw it over the strings. From the first note, he knew he had found his choice. The low notes were deep, rich and mellow, the high notes flute-like and pure.

A hush filled the shop as he shifted into Partita no.1 by Bach.

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_A/N - Discription of Sherlock's violin is from Sherlockolgy._

_Luthier – A master craftsman of stringed instruments_


	8. Chapter 8

**The Music of the Night**

Most people did not understand or appreciate how Sherlock's brilliant mind worked. He had a rather uncanny ability to observe and relate the truth in a way that made socializing with him awkward and unnerving. His genius allowed him to make leaps of deduction that left others confused and skeptical. So he was labeled an outsider, someone who was a misfit and a freak.

He learned to ignore insults to avoid the damage that ridicule and derision make to an open heart. He walled himself away, buried his emotions so deeply within himself that he came to believe he did not care. Sherlock's emotional solitude protected him.

He told everyone who asked, that he was all about The Work. Sentiment had no place in his life. Emotional attachments were not his area. He said he had been told he didn't have a heart. He told everyone he was a high functioning sociopath. He lied.

His emotional outlet was his music. His violin was an extension of his soul. The music mirrored the emotions tightly held in rein throughout the day. Anger, frustration, or fear produced staccato, warlike notes of aggression, while happiness usually produced playful music in a fast triple metre. Sadness was reflected by soft, mournfully melancholic notes while sentiment showed up in surprisingly passionate compositions that were truly bellisimo.

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watch?v=FlthGy6BRgk Phantom of the Opera – The Music of the night.


	9. Chapter 9 Mrs Hudson

_Mrs. Hudson_

Martha Browning was one of the few members of staff at the Holmes Estate who took the time to listen to little Sherlock. He was such an odd, endearing, lively little fellow. He was as sharp as a tack and always searching for new information. Sherlock was constantly underfoot where she worked as assistant to the pastry chef. She didn't mind, but others were not so accommodating. She soon devised a series of covert signs to let the little boy know when it was okay to be in the kitchen. Sherlock loved it, It was like they were real secret agents! He also loved the delightful pastries she created for him alone, but mostly, he just loved being around Martha Browning.

He was very upset when she moved away to marry Bertram Hudson. Although she sent cards and letters, he missed her terribly.

Years later, Sherlock, now working with the police, stopped by the Yard. He was startled to recognize a much older Martha Hudson being interviewed by an officer. He noticed the heavy bruises on her face and arms. Sherlock discovered that Mrs. Hudson's ex-husband was wanted on murder charges in Florida. Bertie needed to escape to a country with no extradition laws. Martha had refused to give him money.

"Don't worry." Sherlock told her softly. "I'll nail the bastard."


	10. Chapter 10

Friend

Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. He had never had friends. He didn't understand the concept of friendship or even the need for such. Why would he want the hassle of catering to someone else's whims? Alone was what he had, and it worked very well for him, thank you very much.

What he needed was a flat mate, someone to share the cost of the somewhat pricey Baker Street apartment. All he required of the man was to leave him alone and to come up with his portion of the monthly rent. It should have been simple. It wasn't. The first three applicants took a look at the clutter at Baker Street, listened to Sherlock talk, and had walked out the door never to be seen again.

Then one fateful day he was introduced to John Watson, who needed a place to live. John didn't think Sherlock's observations were annoying. He said they were brilliant. He was willing to accompany him to crime scenes. He tolerated his experiments, mostly.

Their association flourished and developed ways neither man imagined. Sherlock provided danger and action to the stimulant starved ex-soldier. John in turn, became a moral compass and a conductor of light to the genius. Most surprising to both, they became friends. It was a friendship so deep it became an unbreakable bond.


	11. Chapter 11 - Sharp Dressed Man

_A/N This is a slightly late birthday gift for the fantastic AlessNox. Aless, I almost made it on time, but by the time I proofed it , it was the 28__th__! I hope you had a wonderful day!_

**Sharp Dressed Man**

Sherlock opened the wardrobe, his garments, lined up in an orderly fashion, were an extension of his personality. He preferred functionality over form and style. Not to say that his suits were stuffy. His four suits, each with an extra pair of trousers hung neatly to preserve their crisp lines, were classic with a subtle slim line that pleased him. Beside the suits, hung shirts of various hues; Four white, one grey, three black, two navy-blue, and one aubergine.

He considered his options. Should he go totally professional and wear a white shirt and grey suit? That combination might impress the banker he was interrogating this morning, but it would do nothing this afternoon to help him procure the liver he needed for his latest experiment. Molly had been unusually resistant of late.

He smirked and pulled the ultimate wardrobe weapon from its hanger.

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That afternoon, Sherlock breezed into the morgue.

"Molly…" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. Instead of his pathologist, a young man looked up and smiled, his eyes traveling up and down the detective in obvious appreciation.

"I'm Bruce, Molly is on holiday. May I help you?"

Sherlock made a split second decision. He desperately needed that liver. He plastered on his best fake smile. It was time to use the purple shirt of sex on the fabulous Bruce.


End file.
